"No; I only want you to read it. If it's bad, say so like a man: don't put the poor wretch off with the usual sugary criticism. And don't let it lie for months with all the rest of the lumber. You managers are cruel to authors, and you've had this one lying idle a long time."
He did not deny the charge, save by a smile.
"I'll read it this week, sure," he said. "What's it called, and who's the author?"
"I forget the name of the play. The author is a Mr. Mortimer."
She said the name quite easily and without a blush, but Billing on the instant thought, "Who the devil is he? And what does she want to push his play for?" But he did not allow his face even to hint at surprise. He just held out his hand and said good-by, as naturally as if he had not been rejected without any hope of a future recantation. For though he professed optimism, in his heart he felt that Beatrice was not for him, and the knowledge hurt.
"Good-by," he said cheerily. "Mind you have a good holiday, and come back to work soon."
"Good-by, Ashford," she said, trying to keep back some unnecessary tears. She had known him for some time and guessed what he was thinking. He, she was sure, was at least one of the men who tried. "You're a good sort. Good-by."
Then she telephoned to a garage: "I want my car at two o'clock!"